


The Long Way Home

by lovenothate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe, Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Prostitution, Sexual Slavery, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovenothate/pseuds/lovenothate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen-aged John is kidnapped and sold to an underground prostitution ring, where despite his best efforts, he spends the next several years of his life. Salvation finally arrives in the form of one Sherlock Holmes, who buys John on a whim while investigating the brothel he's currently imprisoned inside. John doesn't know realize any of this at the time, however, all he knows is that he's been sold once again, only this time it seems for the better. </p>
<p>(Or, the one in which sex slave John is bought by Sherlock and eventually gets a chance at a normal life again, or as close as can be had while living with the world's only consulting detective.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many warnings ahead, please heed: Child abuse, underage non-con (not explicit but very pervasive) , violence, death of a child, torture, mental manipulation, suicidal ideation (not by John), kidnapping, imprisonment, and I'll add any others I may have missed if any of you alert readers let me know about them. Comments, concrit, questions, and general advice welcome.

John tries to escape three times that first year, each attempt failing more disastrously than the last. The first two tries had been borne of sheer desperation, with little planning or forethought. The bastinado is used on him as punishment each time, leaving him unable to walk for almost a week afterwards. Crawling to the loo and the common area where they are fed is a singularly humbling experience, in some ways just as demoralizing as the agonizing pain in his feet.

He is clever enough to figure out why that particular brand of punishment is used. He doesn't need to be able to stand to fulfill the purpose for which he's been taken, and visible bruises would likely lower his value to the men who laid out good money to act out their otherwise forbidden fantasies.

With his small, almost delicate stature and angelic good looks, John passes easily for the eleven year old his captors tell the customers he is. (He never bothers telling of them the truth, seeing no advantage in to him, only the promise of possible pain.) As a result, he is quite popular among the degenerates who frequent this particular establishment, especially among those who liked a bit of a struggle.

He doesn't fight it anymore though, not in any serious fashion. That had been trained out of him fairly quickly, especially once he'd broken one particular man's nose in a somewhat spectacular fashion. Solitary confinement in a small dark closet without food or water worked wonders for gaining the cooperation of even the most stubborn of boys, of which John was most assuredly one.

For his third escape attempt, John takes his time. He notes which guards are more lax than others, when certain doors are likely to be unwatched, and who can be bribed with the promise of an enthusiastic blow job.. He enlists the aid of four other boys, all clever and quick and just as desperate as he is to leave. (Not all are. Apathy and hopelessness are epidemic and John has no intention of becoming one of those dead eyed figures who drift through the halls like ghosts.)

They almost make it. 

It's close enough that John can smell fresh air, beautiful blessed outside air, before a group of guards shows up out of nowhere and puts paid to that. His last vision before a nasty uppercut renders him unconscious is the sight of James darting between two beefy men and disappearing into the early morning mist. His last thought is a prayer for his safety.

John wakes up in his own cot. He waits there, jaw throbbing but relatively uninjured, for Sam or Michael or one of the guards to come fetch him for his punishment. 

No one comes.

Eventually he gets up and makes his way down the hall to the large communal bathroom they all use. One of his small group of conspirators is there and he learns that no one has, as yet, been punished. His stomach churns too badly to eat that night and he sleeps restlessly, waiting each moment to be dragged to the common room to meet his fate. John's not stupid. He knows this attempt, coordinated and planned and involving a group, will be dealt with much more harshly than his first two pathetic attempts at freedom. What could be worse than what he'd already been through, save death, is what keeps him awake nights.

Four days pass.

Customers come and go, the same as usual, and it's as if nothing has happened. He'd almost think he imagined everything if not for the absence of James. James, who could run faster than any of them and was smart enough to outwit just about anyone here, and who was surely in a police station at this very moment, telling them where they were and all that was happening here.

Any minute now a team of armed officers of the law would swarm the place and save them all. Everyone would be taken back home to their families and all this would be over. He pictures himself at the trial, how he'd look every one of his former captors in the face and tell the world exactly what kind of monsters they are, and how they deserved to be locked up where they could never hurt anyone else ever again. 

Any minute now rescue would come.

Any minute.

On the evening of the fourth day everyone is summoned to the common room and the knot in John's stomach twists up impossibly tight. He expects to see the sawhorse used for whippings set up in the centre of the room, or some other heretofore unknown instrument of torture and abuse. But there is nothing. Nothing but a group of confused and extremely apprehensive boys; the youngest only twelve, the oldest no more than sixteen.

When James is led in, the air is all but sucked out of the room with the collective gasp that runs through the group. One of the little ones bursts into tears and more than one clutches a friend for support. For James is almost unrecognizable through the swelling and discoloration that covers almost every inch of his small body. He's completely incapable of standing, but the two guards who brought him in hold him up between them and try to force him to anyway. Even from his spot near the back of the crowd, John has no problem hearing the wet labored breathing that sounds too painful to bear.

“Oh, God,” John moans, and takes an involuntarily step back from the horrific sight. 

“John,” Sam says, his voice echoing through the room. “John, Ajay, Boyd. Over here. Now,” he adds when they don't move closer immediately. He grabs James by his hair, pulling him free of the grip of the guards and dangling him in front of them like a marionette. “I want you to see what you did. What you made happen through your stupidity. I want you to watch while I do this,” and without warning, he pulls out a gun and shoots James in the head.

“This is what happens when you break the rules,” he yells over the screams and crying that now fill the room. “This is what happens when you're stupid,” and from off to his right John hears the sound of retching. His own stomach is churning and he's sure he's going to loose his lunch at some point but mostly, he feels frozen by the sheer unreality of what's just happened, not ten feet from his face. 

It's impossible, however, to shove what's happened down into his subconscious where he didn't have to think about it any more when he is forced to clean up afterwards. He is on his knees on the cold tile floor wiping up what's left of James, cold and shivering with shock when Sam comes to stand in front of him. 

John stares at the big black boots filling his field of vision and waits.

“Have you learned your lesson now, John? You and the rest of you worthless lot?” he asks and John hears shuffling from the other boys but no one answers the question. “Well?” Sam barks again and kicks John in his side, not hard enough to disable him but more than enough to knock him over onto his back. Sam stands over him then, straddling John's prone body and kneels down to slap his face hard. “Answer me, you stupid cunt. Are you ever going to do anything this stupid again? Because if you do, next time, it'll be you with his brains on the walls.”

John tries to force out a “No”, he really does. Everything in him is screaming for his submission, screaming that, in spite of everything, he doesn't want to die. Not here and not now. He tries but his vocal chords are locked up and John panics, sure that he's going to be shot next over the lack of single word. 

Sam doesn't kill him, or anyone else that day. The three remaining boys including John are beaten later on that night and it hurts, hurts worse than anything that's gone before but in an odd way John welcomes the pain. It helps to subsume a portion of the guilt that he suspects will be part of him until the day he dies. 

If not for him, James would still be alive. 

It's that thought, more than the threat of death, more than the punishments designed to break his spirit, that finally convinces John to give up. For now anyway, and never again with someone else.

He bides his time and waits. He's started making vague, nebulous plans for a possible fourth attempt some months later, not at all sure he'll ever act on them when Sam stops by for a talk. The other boys in his room melt away without being told, leaving them alone.

Sam drops a photo on the bed between them. It's Harry, Harry and his Mum and Dad, standing in front of their building. He knows those concrete steps intimately, memories of himself spending long summer days playing on them when he was younger flashing through his mind in an instant. Sometimes he'd write messages to Harry on them in chalk, secret messages that only she'd understand. She'd always roll her eyes and call him a spaz but there was never any malice behind her words. Home, his mind moans, with a depth of yearning that only someone cut off from all that is safe and familiar could understand.

Without conscious thought he reaches out to touch to their image but it is pulled away just before his hand makes contact.

“Look at it,” Sam demands and shoves the picture in his face. “Look at their faces. Do they look sad to you? Look like they are missing you at all?” and John notices now that they are smiling. Smiling and happy without him, all while he is here, being raped and beaten and maybe killed.

“Here's the truth, because you seem to think you've got something waiting for you if you do somehow manage to get out. You were sold to us. By your parents, John,” he adds when John can only stare uncomprehendingly at him, “They sold you to us for three thousand pounds. They don't want you back.”

He drops the picture back onto the bed and John's eyes track it's fall, even as his mind tries to reject Sam's words.

“This is your life now, John. Did you really think you were just going to go home and have everything be like it was? You're nothing but a whore now. You'll never be anything but a whore. Quit being stupid and you'll be okay here.” He reaches out to stroke John's cheek and he flinches away involuntarily from the mock tenderness. It's a mistake, he knows that the minute it happens but it's too late now. Sam grabs his wrist and grinds the delicate bones together, hard enough that John cries out in pain.

“Actions have consequences. Be good and I'll be good to you.”

But John misses his words as a curious rushing sound fills his ears. With a start, he realizes that tears are streaming down his face. 

He hasn't cried once since being brought here. Not once, and it had been a point of pride. He cries now through no will of his own, cries while Sam roughly fucks him there on his bunk, cries when he slaps his face and tells him to man up, cries silent unnerving tears for two days straight. When they finally stop as suddenly as they'd started they leave behind only a heavy empty numbness. 

Sam is right. 

This is his life now. He tries to picture himself going back to his old school, walking down the halls with his mates, sitting at his favorite desk (the one with the little wobble on one side), and it feels like a dream. A distant, increasingly hazy dream that he'd once lived but wouldn't fit him anymore. 

His old life is gone forever and he'd best accept it before his stupid, fruitless struggles manages to get him – or worse, someone else – killed. He stops all his little acts of resistance – no more stealing food from the kitchen, or struggling with the customers. The only thing he still allows himself is looking after the injured boys and the little ones, as best as he's able.

He can't do much but every so often he's able to catch the eye of one of the more depraved men who has little Frankie or Paul in his sights. He talks Juan out of hanging himself with his sheets and holds Ajay when he finally breaks down and cries for his Mum. He bandages up wounds and shows the new kids what to do to minimize damage.

He keeps as much of John alive in him as he dares, while burying deep down the rebellious parts that scream for freedom and justice. 

He tries not to dwell on whether or not what Sam had said about his parents is true, even as memories of the cold indifference his mother had always shown him and his father's drunken rages surface with irritating regularity. He wants to believe that they miss him and want him back even as he remembers going to bed hungry because the grocery money had been spent on liquor once again, remembers their selfish needs being put ahead of his own over and over again. It is far too easy to picture someone approaching them with an offer too tempting to turn down, an easy fix to the money problems that had plagued them his whole life.

It doesn't matter if it's true or not because the fact is, they are part of his past now. Best to let it all go and concentrate on the here and now, and so he does.


	2. Chapter 2

It comes as more of a surprise than it should when John is sold off some three years after first being taken. 

It shouldn't have, of course, as he'd watched others being taken away to an unknown fate when they got too old to appeal to their very discerning clientele. He is still shorter than most and his face could easily pass for someone much younger, however, so it's with trepidation that he watches Sam sitting behind his desk, waiting to hear why he'd been summoned. He doesn't remember doing anything wrong lately but you never knew what a customer would find to complain about.

Sam leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, regarding John over their tips. John fights the urge to shift nervously.

“I'm going to be sorry to see you go,” he says finally and it takes a full minute for the words to sink in fully.

“I don't understand,” John says eventually when it's obvious Sam is waiting for him to say something in reply.

“You've gotten too old for our guests, John. Time to move on down the road.” And Sam actually does look regretful, which might be surprising to some given his rocky beginning. It isn't really, as ever since that day Sam had pointed out a few home truths John had become the model worker, doing as he's told without complaint.

Sam stands up and John is careful not to lean back, or look away, or do anything else that might be somehow interpreted as disrespectful. He opens a drawer and John freezes, waiting to see if he'll pull out his gun (black and deadly and so, so loud), waiting to see if this is how whores past their prime are retired.

He breathes again when he sees it's only a simple manila folder. Sam hands the folder to Michael and pulls a black hood from his pocket, pulling it over John's head in one quick motion. John fights the urge to yank it back off again and concentrates on taking shallow, regular breaths. No air, no light, no air, his mind is screaming at him but he ignores it, tries to convince himself that suffocation isn't as imminent as his lizard brain seems to think. A hand claps him roughly on the shoulder and he stumbles back a little at the impact.

“Be good, now,” Sam says, and with those three words this chapter of his life is over.

The only good thing about the transfer is the smell of fresh air that filters in from underneath the hood. The motion of the vehicle he's riding in feels odd after being stationary for so many years and he sits very still, fighting off panic. 

A part of him is sure he is being driven off to some remote location to be quietly disposed of and buried in an unmarked grave. No witnesses, his mind whispers.

Instead he's helped out of the van and led into another building, one his nose immediately identifies as different from the one he's used to. The hood comes off and John takes a look at his new home.

The first thing he notices is that he's now one of the younger workers, whereas before he was one of the oldest. The building looks more run down, with chipped formica floors and faded paint. Other than that there isn't much difference, so far as he can tell.

He learns differently soon enough.

The guards at the old house had been careful to warn customers not to get too rough with the boys, promising retribution to anyone who left marks or injuries. John wasn't so foolish as to think it was motivated by any concern over their well being, no, it was simple economics. A damaged whore was lost income, simple as that.

Apparently that no longer applied.

It had still happened at the old place, of course, there were always those who thought the rules didn't apply to them. The problem is, here that rule simply didn't exist. Here, customers are told that they'd have to pay more if they wished to play rough, the reasoning being, John supposed, that charging extra offset whatever work time they lost as a result.

At least there was ample access to medical supplies when needed and even a medical professional of sorts who came by to patch up the worst of it. John never learned what, exactly, he did in the outside world, just grateful that he seemed a decent enough bloke. He even taught John a few things here and there, once he saw his interest in the subject.

It is some time later, a year or so if he had to make a guess, when he's abruptly sold again. After that it no longer comes as much of a surprise when it happens with regularity. Each place feels a little shabbier than the last, the clientele rougher, the faces of the other workers emptier, but John knows it's probably just his perceptions being skewed by this life wearing him down. A couple of times he's sent back to a house he lived in before and he works out that maybe they are shuffled around so often to keep the clientele interested with fresh faces and new bodies.

He keeps himself sane through daydreaming, mostly, and the occasional book he is able to bribe a guard into bringing in for him. Some places had a telly they are allowed to watch, some don't, but it doesn't matter much as it always seemed to be controlled by someone bigger and stronger than he. Although even the most insipid soap opera is better than nothing if one is bored enough.

Then came the day it all changed. 

His first clue that something is off is the appearance of his first customer of the day. He is young and attractive, which generally means one of two things; either he has a crippling social anxiety disorder or his proclivities are so unacceptable to the general populace that he had no choice but to seek out professionals to indulge it with. 

John is leaning towards the latter being the case.

The man strides around the room, ignoring John after one quick glance, seemingly more interested in the decor than the nude form lying on the bed.

“Is there something I can help you with?” John asks, voice carefully modulated despite the thread of fear running through him. He deliberately doesn't look at the toy box in the corner of the room, where the crops and floggers and other items of special interest are kept.

The man's eyes flick in his direction but he doesn't answer right away. Instead he studies the brick wall behind the bed, set with various hooks and other devices that one could, if one wished, attach ropes and other restraints to. John swallows and waits.

“No,” he eventually says, “I believe I've seen quite enough, thanks.” And with that, he turns and leaves.

John stumbles from the bed in a panic. If he's been found unsatisfactory for some reason, for any reason, there would be hell to pay.

“Wait!” he calls out as he hurries after him, “Please, stop! I can do it, whatever it is you want. I swear, I'll do it and do it well.”

The man pauses at John's words and turns to examine him once again, more thoroughly this time. His eyes narrow and his lips thin and John's sure he's angered him somehow, although what it is, exactly, he's done is beyond him.

“Come with me,” he finally says and John does as he's told.

They go to the door customers are let in through and the man raps on it impatiently. It's opened almost immediately by a guard, who is obviously startled by his wanting out so soon after being let in.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Smith?” he asks, only to be rudely shoved aside. John hesitates on the threshold, only to be once again ordered to follow along.

He does.

The owner of this brothel, a smallish older man who goes by the name of Butch, isn't pleased when they sweep into his office. He's eying John coldly, clearly already planning how to best punish him when his erstwhile customer makes an astonishing statement.

“Before you start, no, he hasn't done anything wrong and there's no need to do whatever it is you're planning to do to him. I like him. I like him so much, as a matter of fact, that I wish to purchase him from you.”

It had happened before, a few times but not lately, that a customer had made serious sounding plans to “save” John, to take him away from this life and presumably make him part of theirs as their own personal sex toy. Nothing had ever come of it, of course, although he'd been foolish enough to believe it was true the first time it had happened. Maybe this time...

This wasn't the same, of course. He hadn't even fucked John, knew nothing about his abilities or lack thereof in bed. All he knew is what he saw. Apparently the same thought had occurred to the brothel owner, who narrows his eyes and studies Mr. Smith for a long, uncomfortable minute.

“Why?” he asks baldly, “I've checked you out, you know. I know you don't work for any of our competitors. So it must be personal. We've got younger, prettier boys. Why d'you want that” he waved a dismissive hand in John's direction, “one? For that matter, why don't ya just go get yourself a boyfriend? Won't be cheap, ya know.”

The man smiles. He smiles and John knows he will remember that particular smile for rest of his life, however long it may be. It is a smile that promises evil things, bad things, very evil bad things will be taking place in the not too distant future. 

With any luck, not to John's person. Although his luck isn't what you'd call the best in the world.

“I have very... particular tastes,” he answers quietly, almost gently. “I'm sure you understand.”

John does. And judging by the look on his current owner's face, so did he. Still, he equivocates.

“We don't usually sell to individuals for a reason, Mr. Smith.” He has more to say but John's soon to be new owner cuts him off.

“Of course you don't. Wouldn't want secrets spilling out all over the place, now would you?” He leans in and says with a conspiratorial smirk. “I can assure you, it won't be an issue.”

John swears his heart stops beating, just for a minute. He hopes he's wrong, he hopes it isn't being implied that he'll soon be unable to spill any secrets (Although what he could possibly know that's so very important, he can't fathom for the life of him). He hopes it just means he'll be kept under lock and key which won't be any different from the way he's lived a good portion of his life at this point, so, no change there.

There's some dickering over price with an eventual settling of eight thousand pounds (far too much, in John's opinion) and then Mr. Smith leaves with a promise of returning the following day to finish the transaction. John isn't allowed to go back to his room right away, instead he's interrogated for the next few hours by a series of people using increasingly severe techniques to get his to talk. 

It's only when everyone is eventually satisfied that a) no, he has never met Mr. Smith before and b) he has no idea who he is and most importantly c) no, he doesn't believe he's a cop. How he is supposed to be able to tell whether or not his soon to be new owner is or is not a policeman is beyond him, but that's not important. What's important is that the following day, it actually happens.

He wakes up that morning half convinced he's dreamed it all but then a guard comes to fetch him straight after lunch, just before he is due to go on shift. He is led him into the office where he finds Mr. Smith waiting. No one else is there so it's understandable that John hesitates when told to leave with him.

“It's all right, John,” Mr. Smith says, voice quiet in the small room, “you belong to me now.”


	3. Chapter 3

He isn't hooded or blindfolded as they step outside into the chilly springtime air. It isn't even dark, it's broad daylight and the sky is big, much, much bigger than he remembers. It just goes on and on above his head and before he knows it, John's hugging the rough brick wall behind him like it's a life raft.

“What now?” Mr. Smith asks when he notices John isn't following him once again, turning back with evident irritation in his stride. “Ah,” he says on spotting John, pale and sweating with his eyes closed against all that never ending sky above him. “Agoraphobia. I should have known.” 

John hears him move closer and cringes, waits for the inevitable blow that isn't, for some unknown reason, immediately forthcoming. Instead something heavy and made of cloth is tossed over his head, followed by a hand tugging on his wrist. 

“Come on, then. Haven’t got all day.” John falters a few times as he follows the too fast pace being set but keeps up fairly well considering. He's sure they are in a taxi at some point but doesn't consider how odd he must look to the driver with his head covered the way it is as he's far too concerned about his immediate future. 

Afterwards there are a short series of steps followed by their echoing footsteps on a hard surface floor. John lurches as the floor starts to move under him. It takes his brain a second to process the fact that he must be in a lift before he reaches out for the hand rail that is, thankfully, where it should be. After some more impatient tugging and following the coat roughly pulled from his body, disorienting him in the process.

John blinks and waits for his eyes to adjust to the light. 

He's in a flat. Although it's not a proper flat, more like cross between one and a hotel room. Everything is bland and generic and there's a definite air of waystop about the place. Still, it's the closest he's been to normal in longer than he cares to remember.

Mr. Smith is drawing the curtains and the room is suddenly, blessedly dim. 

“Better?” he asks and then turns and heads into the tiny kitchen area without waiting for an answer. John shifts nervously, entirely unsure of himself and his place here. Luckily, it isn't long before his new owner comes back into the room, frowning. 

“I was going to make tea,” he says, “but it seems I'm out.” He eyes John as if about to ask him something before shaking his head, evidently answering his own question before it's even asked. “Pity. It would have been nice to have someone to do the shopping. Still, I'm sure I'll find something to keep you busy.” 

John nods and waits.

“You can talk to me, you know. So long as you don't chatter a mile a minute I don't mind. I won't always answer and I don't like being disturbed when I'm thinking but otherwise...”

John wonders how on earth he's supposed to know when he is or isn't thinking while his owner watches him, apparently waiting for an answer.

“Thank you?” he says uncertainly.

“That's all right.”

A hundred questions are clamoring in his head, wanting to be answered but John's still too unsure of himself to ask a single one. The most pressing one being, of course, why had he been bought? He's gotten good at reading people over the years – there's nothing even close to lust in those pale gray eyes. Still, he's been wrong before.

“It's Sherlock, by the way. Not Smith.”

He'd assumed Smith was an alias, of course, and wonders what it means that he's being given his owner's real name. 

“Yes, Mr. Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs out his disdain. “Sherlock is my given name. Now, have a seat. We have some work to do.”

What follows is a grueling and confusing few hours, during which John is questioned about the most mundane aspects of his past life. He has no idea why anyone would care how the laundry was done (everyone was assigned chores, including laundry duty, although a couple of places he'd lived had sent it out to be done), or how many customers he saw in a typical day (it varied wildly, oddly enough the holidays were the busiest time). He didn't know how the money aspect was handled, except that it never went through him, he couldn't say how the other workers at his most recent house had come to be there (although he could make a guess, he'd stopped making friends three or four owner's ago), and he never got the surnames of anyone he came into contact with, customer or captor. He was able to give the full names of some of the other workers he'd known in the past, and Sherlock noted each with care.

“I'm sorry,” John apologized at one point, because while he didn't know what exactly, was going on, it was now clear at least part of the reason he'd been bought was for information. 

“Sorry for what?” Sherlock asks.

“Sorry I'm not more help,” John says and Sherlock answers with no rancor in his voice.

“While it's true there are several unfortunate gaps in your knowledge, it's to be expected. You've actually been a tremendous help, John.” He cocks his head to one side and meets his eyes with an intensity that feels suddenly overwhelming. “Actual, you are far more observant than most.”

That is a complement, unless John is completely mistaken, and one not even distantly related to anything to do with sex. A warm glow starts from somewhere around his navel and migrates throughout his body.

“The only question is,what do I do with you now?”

This ominous statement, following so closely behind the kind one of just a minute before, leaves John reeling. “I can cook!” he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “and clean! I can be very useful, beyond the, well, beyond the obvious.”

Sherlock nods and says “Perhaps.”

John clears his throat and adds, “Speaking of the obvious...”

Sherlock stands up, tapping on his phone, and answers John in a distinctly bored tone. “That won't be necessary.”

It's a measure of how confused John is that he's not sure if his lack of interest is a good thing or something he should be concerned about.

He's told to sleep on the sofa that night and does so, waking up the next day with the sun. Sherlock, to his surprise, has beaten him up and is busy typing away on a laptop, occasionally, consulting his phone. John's sure he knows he's awake but as he says nothing, pads off to quickly use the loo before investigating the tiny kitchen area. The cabinets are empty save a small set of dishes, two pans and a teakettle. It reinforces the impression he'd gotten the evening before, that Sherlock doesn't actually live here but is most likely just staying here on a temporary basis. 

He goes back into the bathroom and tidies himself up as much as possible, finger combing his hair and brushing his teeth with his finger. His clothing is wrinkled from sleeping in it but there's not much he can do about that except smooth it out a bit with the palm of his hand. He goes back out into the main area only to find it empty. 

Sherlock had left in the few minutes he'd been gone, leaving John alone. After waiting a few minutes to see if he was coming back shortly, he goes to look out the peephole. So far as he can see, the corridor is empty. 

He's alone. 

He looks at the ceilings and light fixtures, wondering where the cameras are hidden and how many there are. Sherlock didn't strike him as someone who would be careless with a recent acquisition that had cost him thousands of pounds.

He wonders if the door is locked but doesn't dare test it to find out.

With a start he realizes he has sank down onto the floor and scoots back until his back touches the wall. He feels lightheaded and dizzy and adrift, like a boat loosed from it's moorings. The new position helps some, but not enough and eventually he retreats back to the loo. The small space comforts him in some indefinable way and so he stays there most of the day, ignoring his stomach's protests. It's far from the first time he's missed a meal, and at any rate there is nothing he can do about it. And so he waits.

Sherlock returns late that evening, setting John's heart racing with the sound of the door opening and closing. He emerges from the bathroom to find him opening up his laptop.

“You didn't use this while I was gone. Or try to, rather,” he announces to the room at large and John starts, not realizing he'd been noticed.

“No,” he says and then adds, feeling he should clarify, “I wouldn't touch your property without permission.”

Sherlock nods absently at this and continues to peer at the screen. John's stomach chooses that exact moment to let the world know it is not happy with it's long dry spell and rumbles loudly. John claps his hands over his midsection and then immediately feels foolish at doing so, as if he could keep the noise inside in that way.

“There's a take away menu over here,” Sherlock says with a wave in the general direction of an end table. “Pick something and call it in.”

John picks up the menu. It's for a Chinese restaurant named Foo Yo which states proudly that they would deliver to a ten block radius in thirty minutes or less. There are eighty seven different items on it, which means eighty seven choices for him to make.

“What would you like?” he asks, getting the important thing out of the way first. Sherlock doesn't answer, just flaps a hand in his direction impatiently which John takes to mean he should choose for him. Which means his task has just gotten a hundred times harder.

Eventually he decides on beef with broccoli, general tso's chicken, a side of spring rolls and a carton of hot and sour soup. Things most people like, so far as he remembers, and so hopefully a safe choice. Whatever Sherlock rejects will be his meal. He calls in the order, speaking slowly and carefully so there will be no mix ups, then hangs up the phone. His hand hovers for a minute over the keypad.

Seven nine six, his mind whispers, and he's pretty sure that he's right. Not totally sure, of course, it's been so long since he dialed or even thought about his old home phone number that he could be wrong.

Seven nine six, zero four one six one.

He thinks he's right. His finger hovers over the seven without conscious thought before he roughly jerks it back, curling his hand into a tight fist. Things are going well here, for now at any rate. It would be stupid to risk it now. Besides, there was every chance that his parents would have moved on to a new flat or a new number after all this time. Harry would almost certainly be gone by now, a grown woman with a place of her own. Maybe even a family of her own.

It's a strange thought. All these years whenever he'd thought of her she'd been the same age she'd been when he'd been taken. But for some reason now he is suddenly able to picture her as she might be today. All grown up. Like him. Well, not exactly like him. He is pretty sure the years would have been kinder to her than they'd been to him. He runs a hand down his leg, over the scar left behind by a customer a couple of years ago and feels old, old and dirty and worn out and used up.

“Don't call,” a voice behind him orders, startling him out of his reverie.

John steps back from the phone as though it has caught fire. 

“I won't,” he says, and doesn't ask out loud how Sherlock knew what he was considering, although he wonders about it to himself. His owner didn't even seem to be looking his way, not once all this time. He was going to have to step extra carefully if he wanted to keep out of trouble.

John smells the food even before the knock at the door alerts him to the arrival of the delivery person (delivery girl, it's a girl only seventeen or thereabouts, and John wonders why her parents let her wander all over London alone like this, anyone could...)

“That'll be eighteen pounds even, please,” she says and John turns to Sherlock for the money, who points in the direction of a wallet. He counts out the money and carefully puts the change back inside before returning it exactly where he'd gotten it from. 

The food is served as well as he's able given the limited supplies on hand and John sits at the table and waits for Sherlock to join him. It smells indescribably delicious and his stomach rumbles once more.

And he waits.

And waits. 

It's the prospect of Sherlock having to eat cold food that finally motivates John to ask if he'd like to eat now. 

“None for me, thanks,” he says and after a long minute's thought John takes that as permission for him to go ahead and eat.

It tastes even better than it smells and takes considerable will power for him to stop when he does, leaving more than half for later if Sherlock should want him to reheat it for him at some point later on in the evening. He tucks the food away back in it's original cartons and stows it in the tiny fridge, wipes off the table and then the rest of the kitchens surfaces for good measure. He sits back down at the small table for lack of anything better to do.

He drifts off to sleep at some point and wakes up with his head on the table to find Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, apparently not having moved in all that time.

“Pen,” Sherlock says holding is hand out without looking his way and John fumbles around for a bit, searching until he finally finds one that's rolled to the back of a drawer. He stands around for a minute, just in case, then sits back down again.

The next time he wakes up, Sherlock is gone once more.

This sets the pattern for the next few days, Sherlock spending most of his time out and ignoring John for the most part when he was there. Every so often he'd ask John a question, always out of the blue. 

It grows more unsettling as time goes on, because John is sure thousands of pounds hadn't changed hands just for the sake of a few questions. Unless Sherlock planned to use the information he'd provided to somehow take over that operation... Hey now, that could be the answer to this riddle.

Maybe Sherlock was a rival, or a potential rival, who wanted his former owner's business. He knew houses changed hands every so often, he'd heard others talk about it and it had happened to him on one occasion. Although that time it had simply been bought out, he is sure violence was used to effect the same result on occasion as well.

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

If that were the case, he'd most likely soon find himself right back where he'd come from. After all, once he'd been pumped for all the useful information he had to give, what other purpose would he serve? It is this thought sends John into a controlled panic. He doesn't want to go back.

He likes it here. He likes the respite from the sexual demands put on him, he likes the food, he likes having a telly of his very own to watch, and he likes his time being, for the most part, his own. He likes the quiet solitude after so many years being crowded into one building or another with too many others. He is even beginning to like having windows to look out of once again.

He'd been forcing himself to do just that, for longer and longer periods each day. Sometimes a bird would sit on the window ledge and he'd watch it hop about, so delicate and small. It thought nothing of leaping off it's perch, trusting the wind currents to carry it safely to it's destination, whenever it felt like a change of scenery.

It was obvious that as things stood, John is most likely soon to be obsolete. If he could leave the flat he'd be free to run errands and maybe help Sherlock with whatever it was he did all day. And maybe, just maybe, he'd keep John there with him.

He asks Sherlock's permission to leave the flat the very next time he sees him. He gets it, with a caveat. 

“Stay in crowds of people, don't go off by yourself. I don't believe Butch,” and he says the name like an epitaph, “will do anything, but it's better safe than sorry.” 

He doesn't tell John how long to stay out, and he doesn't warn him of what will happen if he doesn't come back on his own. It's only later, much, much later that these two facts will occur to John. At the time it simply never occurs to him to not return and so doesn't think it odd when Sherlock doesn't mention it.

It will take John time and help to fully realize how conditioned he'd become over the years, conditioned to the point of brainwashing.

After Sherlock's warning John isn't sure he still wants to go out but he does anyway, later that same afternoon. He only makes it as far as the lobby of the building with it's huge plate glass windows but he lets himself feel proud of his small accomplishment anyway. He promises to do better the next day.

And he does. 

By the end of the week he's going to the end of the block and back and actually enjoying it. He remembers this, remembers the feel of sunshine on his skin and the sound of the wind moving though the branches of the trees. Well, he's only seen one tree so far but it is still beautiful. He runs his palm over the bumpy bark before plucking a single green leaf to take back to the flat with him.

He sits on the sofa and spends the next few hours rubbing it between his fingertips while watching channel one.

It's the following day when things begin to unravel.

He's made it down to the lobby and nods to the desk clerk, who always smiles when she sees John come through. He's wanted to go up and say hello to her every since that first day, drawn by her kind face and demeanor. He has yet to work up the nerve.

He's just about to step outside when he spots him. 

Loitering near the entrance of the building with his head bent down over the Times, John makes out a familiar shock of ginger hair. He freezes in place with one foot out and one in. The man looks up just then and spots John gaping at him like a stunned carp and gives him a nod, a tacit acknowledgment that he knows he's been spotted. He's obviously entirely untroubled by this fact. 

John stands in the doorway and watches him leave until another guest comes up behind and wants through. With a quick muttered apology he moves out of the way but is still standing near the doorway when the desk clerk comes up beside him.

“John?” she says and he jumps, turning to face her. “Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just, you look a bit...”

“Thank you, no,” he says realizing how odd he'd been acting must look. “I'm all right. I think I'm, I'll just be. Going now. Back to the room.”

He heads towards the lift but turns back to face her while waiting for it to arrive. “I'm sorry, how did you know my name?”

“I heard your boyfriend talking to you the other day.” At John's surprised look she adds, “Oh, I wasn't eavesdropping, promise. You were just close by.”

John remembers that day, remembers walking down with Sherlock when he left for the day. He supposes it's not surprising that she assumed they were a couple. He opens his mouth to correct her mistake but then closes it when he realizes he has no idea what to tell her. Sherlock doesn't seem to care much about what other people think of him but he's fairly sure even he would object to having the world know he'd paid cold hard cash for the privilege of John's company.

Finally he just says, “Right,” and is saved further embarrassment by the dinging of the elevator behind him.

“I'm Shelly, by the way,” she calls out as he backs away, tapping the name badge on her blouse. 

“Nice to meet...” he says, the rest of his sentence cut short by the closing doors.

Once upstairs he locks the door behind him and after some thought, shoves one of the kitchen chairs under the knob. It wouldn't stop anyone who is really determined to get in, but then that wasn't really the point. It made him feel a little better while he waited for Sherlock to come home.

He tries and failed not to think about what going back would be like, because he isn't sure he could bear losing the small tastes of freedom he's had. He sits on the sofa and stared at the door, waiting for Sherlock to return. Sherlock will know what to do. Sherlock will want to protect his investment, if nothing else. Sometimes he even had the sneaking suspicion that he liked John, that maybe they could have been friends in another place and time.

And so he waits.


End file.
